


Amassing Memories

by red2007



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Post-Movie: The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), X-Files Wifegate, angsty nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red2007/pseuds/red2007
Summary: "Coming back to a life deserted had been harder than their hasty felonious retreat."Mulder and Scully struggle to avoid the darkness the first Christmas after he's granted freedom. A Christmas party, old ghosts, and a gift remind them they are always at home with each other.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 27
Kudos: 58
Collections: X-Files Secret Santa Fanfic Exchange (2019)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonikaFileFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaFileFan/gifts).



> For the always remarkable Monika from her prompt requesting a hospital Christmas party where Scully has to introduce her husband to her coworkers for the first time.
> 
> This story demanded more angst than I let it and it took on a life of its own, so I hope I fit the bill.
> 
> Thanks to both Bobbie and Annie for doing some read throughs and beta work and for just being encouraging through my anxiety. Chapter 4 is my own though, so it's all on me.
> 
> And as always, Nicole you are incredible and you always make these exchanges so fulfilling and challenging and you are a damned hero.
> 
> *insert standard I'm not getting paid for this and I wish I'd had the chance to do better disclaimer*
> 
> Audio version available on the Audio Fanfic Podcast [here](https://soundcloud.com/audiofanficpod/sets/xf-amassing-memories-by).

They needed this, she’d decided.

When the invitation had initially been delivered it had been haphazardly discarded to the desk; strewn amongst old medical journals, stacks of research and the detritus from a newly renewed affinity for hoarding. She’d never been a clinical hoarder, sentimental collector perhaps. She’d always had a penchant for collecting; grade cards, her nephew’s drawings, a few worn and faded tassels from each time she had matriculated, a photo of she and her parents at her med school graduation, Ahab pride-filled and beaming. Each safely tucked away in an old container in her closet, arranged by date, labeled. It had moved with her to college, her first apartment, Quantico. Abandoned in Georgetown during the escape, she guessed it probably got thrown out when her mother relinquished her apartment.

There was no sense in collecting where they’d gone—how they’d gone. No spare room, no safe corner of the world in which to hide her treasures. Twice they’d had to up and abandon their covers to move under threat of being discovered. Her favorite mug, their first Christmas decorations, a postcard her mother would have loved, a photo of William. She learned very early on the run to detach herself emotionally from everything in her world save for Mulder. Everything could be replaced except for themselves and their feelings, their devotion to the other. So, she’d stopped. The places inside her that once housed her sentiments became rough and world worn from lack of hope.

Coming back to a life deserted had been harder than their hasty felonious retreat. Apartments with new occupants, careers ended. The x-files gathering dust in their old basement office amongst ghosts of the click from the slide projector, challenging banter, and rare muted sighs of ecstasy. Friends and family had been left in the lurch, a terse and inadequate communique from Skinner. The absence and lack of closure had strained the few already flimsy relationships she still had after 9 years of chasing monsters with Mulder. Her mother had cried and clutched her, relief settling into muscles she’d been unknowingly clenching for years, lines she’d accumulated smoothing and aging her in reverse in the span of an afternoon.

Bill hadn’t spoken a word to her since castigating her for her poor life choices, recounting the horror she’d put their mother through, and lamenting how careless she’d been with her loyalties. In the 3 years since they’d bought the house, with money Skinner had managed to safe keep from Mulder’s inheritance, she’d received only Christmas and birthday cards from them; ‘Love, Bill’ always scratched out in far too elongated cursive. Tara, the ever persistent peacekeeper.

She’d never been particularly social or outgoing in her life, had always done just enough to skirt the line between introvert and extrovert. Having to avoid the entanglement of friendship for years only made reentry to society even more laborious. She got on well enough with her team at the hospital, but the habit of surface conversation and holding your cards close was her constant companion. A hospital Christmas party could do wonders for her, not to mention Mulder.

Mulder.

He needed a purpose. It had always been Samantha. Then stopping the men responsible. Then keeping them safe and averting mass extinction. With his freedom went his purpose. He had no means or connections for stopping a global apocalypse. His days of protecting Scully seemed over. Before he was granted absolute freedom from the FBI, he had poured himself into novel writing, but when the words wouldn’t come the paranoia and depression spiked. She thought, with a longing and biting grief that the Gunman actually had helped to rein him in a little. She was loathed to see him so aimless and isolated, all while understanding exactly how he ended up that way. Sitting at her desk, fingering the woven parchment invitation, she hoped for another break in the monotony of their lives. A break that afforded them ballgowns and bow ties in lieu of body parts and bureaucrats.

“Doctor Scully?” Scully was pulled from her musing by a gentle wrap on the door and a raven head poking through her partially opened office door. She offered the nurse a sweet smile and gestured for her to enter. “I just wanted to let you know we’re all set up in the OR for the Pierson case, whenever you’re ready to scrub in.” Scully saw the curious gaze her nurse had eyeing the invitation in her hands. She’d been working at the hospital for years and had never made an appearance and any of the functions they’d held.

“Thank you, Sarah,” she replied with a grin, easing the invitation back into its envelope. She laid it gingerly on the desk, fingering the address drawn in calligraphy on the front. _Dr. Dana Scully and Guest._ With any luck, her _and Guest_ would be amenable.

“The Christmas party?” Sarah wondered aloud, and then seemed to jolt that she’d gotten personal. Scully was reserved, kept to herself. She didn’t dwell on personal things with her staff and coworkers and as a result they’d assumed her standoffish. Looks in the hallway, dismissal in meetings. Sarah grew timid but the upturn she sensed at the corner of Scully’s mouth gave her courage. “Are you coming this year, Dr. Scully?”

“Yes,” came a rather quick reply. “I think that I might.” Scully stood, relinquishing the green and red envelope, settling it in the front pocket of her briefcase. Pulling her lab coat from the back of her chair she whirled it around feeding her arms into the sleeves, pulling her long hair out from under it once it was settled. Her nurse was lingering at the doorway where she normally would have been halfway to the theatre already, a sign things were already changing. Scully afforded her a quizzical arched brow and the young woman smiled shyly at her. Sarah had a question but the reticence to ask it was squashing her resolve. The smile Scully shot at her gave her the push she seemed to need.

“Will you be bringing anyone to the party, Dr. Scully?” People knew _of_ Mulder, had maybe spoken a few words to him here and there but he’d only started coming around during their recent case with the FBI. Hospital rumor mills were notorious, and Our Lady of Sorrows lived up to the stereotype. There’d been murmurs but this was the first time someone had asked her outright about her love life.

She’d had a response ready, had been testing the weight of it on her tongue since Mulder had been officially pardoned.

Husband.

It’s not like she’d never called him that before. It’s not like the people that needed to know didn’t. She just had never been able to publicly acknowledge that she had any contact with him, let alone had married him and she found herself uncharacteristically under prepared for the moment. She dispersed her errant thoughts and anxiety with a clearing of her throat and gave the girl a coy but pensive smile. “Actually, I’ll be bringing my husband.” She left the woman staring in disbelief, chasing after her toward the surgical ward.


	2. Chapter 2

The house was quiet when she walked in that night but there was a sliver of dull yellow light streaming from a crack in his office door, illuminating flecks of dust pirouetting through the air; diffusing the unremarkable downstairs with just enough light to make out the outline of the furniture. It was also enough light to remind her how dreary it was coming home the second week of December to an unfestive house. Again.

It made sense when they were on the run, there was no time and it was a waste of money. They’d stopped exchanging gifts after the first year. Ever since then there hadn’t seemed a point to it. They never knew when they’d have to up and leave it all behind so Christmas just became another day and some habits, she knew, were incredibly hard to break.

Shortly after their getaway in the desert they’d managed to safely make it to Mexico. False papers, false names—it felt like a case file with one objective: Stay hidden, alive. They’d done well but gotten comfortable. In their daily lives, in their relationship. Comfortable enough for a small Christmas tree. Comfortable enough for Mulder to track down glass blown ornaments, gleaming golden baubles that held a shocking similarity to ones her parents had when she was younger. It was the best gift he’d ever given her, but two days before Christmas he’d torn into the tiny apartment they’d been paying for weekly, grabbed her, their go-bags and they’d rushed off. The white twinkle lights from their first Christmas as a couple still shone brightly an hour later, reflecting off the golden glass and casting shadows of guns drawn in the dark room from the figures sent to hunt them down.

She’d suggested decorating once she’d signed the deed for the house; even put a wreath in her cart during a shopping trip one day. The added weight of it in her cart felt unnatural for some reason and the odd way it hung over the side drew attention that gnawed at her, twisting knots in the pit of her stomach. Before she’d made it to the check out, she’d asked a worker to return it for her.

They hadn’t been ready.

Running her eyes over the large unceremonious room of the home they’d slowly created, piece by piece, she wondered when they’d be ready. If they’d ever be. There was never time, there was never desire. Abstaining felt safer. She pulled the envelope out of her bag with a resigned sigh. _Maybe this will help_ , she told herself as she gently knocked on the door, pushing it open as she eased herself into the room. His back was to her, fingers drumming out a tune as he furiously typed into his open document. She came up behind him, extending her arm, running her fingers through his hair. Leaning over to press a kiss to his temple, she lingered, her head resting on his as she read the last paragraph of his manuscript.

“What’s this?” She wondered as she skimmed, words jumping out at her from the screen: _Blevins. Billy Miles. Bellfleur._ _Conspiracy._

“It’s us, Scully. I’m starting at the beginning. Writing it all down how I remember it.” The energy in his voice was in sharp contrast to the calm, quiet room; it was passionate. Focused. “Maybe if I go back from the early days I’ll remember something, maybe I’ll be able to see it as if from fresh eyes.” She sighed, barely, almost imperceptibly. He caught it. She reached around, leaning the invitation on his keyboard. The air in the room shifted just a touch and she stood, leaning against the desk so she could look at him; arms crossed. “What’s this?”

“The hospital Christmas party,” she said carefully. She wanted him to know how important she thought this was. She wanted to tell him how much she felt like they needed a night of frivolous human interaction. She wanted to tell him that she was looking forward to a night of drinks and dancing with him, something their lives had never really afforded them. She wanted him to see how much this could help their current state; individually, mentally, together. She lightened her tone and turned up the corner of her mouth, leaning towards him. “Will you be my date?” She saw the conditioned instant panic in the creases on his forehead, the dart of his eyes and the ever so slight squaring of his shoulders. He’d just been out hunting down bad guys with the feds months ago. They’d run to the sunniest farthest place they could find but the darkness, the doubt and the uncertainty still seemed to linger. She reached down to lace her fingers through his, squeezing, acknowledging his reaction, but pressing ahead. “It’ll be fun.”

There was still a definite edge to him when he finally met her azure eyes but all he saw there was reassurance and hope. They’d do this together, as with all things. “A Christmas party, huh?” He pushed his chair back from the desk enough to slide her along in front of him, bracing her between his legs. His thumbs began brushing circles along her hips and she shuddered. Between work and the strained air at home he hadn’t touched her in weeks. She brought her forehead to rest against his, both hands framing his face; the sandpaper shadow he sported scratched at her palms, contrasting the smooth and massaging geometry he was creating at her waist. The timbre of his voice seemed to drop an octave, and he spoke despite her thumb whispering over his thick, full bottom lip. “Black tie?” She nodded slowly, and brought her lips to his, a light touch, a gentle pressure but she was breathing him in.

“Full tux,” she crooned as her tongue escaped, tracing the same path her thumb had taken along his lip. She ran one of her hands through his hair, bringing it up to the back of his head, urgent to kiss him more fully. She slanted her lips along his and he hesitantly opened for her, her tongue swirling in his cavernous mouth. She felt the fingers of both of his hands extending around her sides, gripping her, pulling her in. She could feel his need, it was a palpable energy that seemed to seep from his fingertips, burning through her sweater, her skin; she moaned full into his mouth in response.

They didn’t do this often enough. The pull of the ill, the need for resolutions, the desire to keep busy, the longing for purpose. Distracting him from his quests sometimes required more energy than she had, and they’d fallen into a companionable—if sullen, parallel existence. Except the moment they felt _this_ pull, it was like the whole world fell away and they were oxygen and sustenance and life. It had always been that way, but after they’d escaped a desperation grew. They had deserted so many and so much that this often felt like all they’d had left and the intoxicating haze of sex, of sweat and sighs cocooned them. Kept them safe. Reminded them.

So when she felt his hands pushing her away, even while his tongue wrapped itself around hers, she felt alarms going off within. He gave her sides a soft rub and began to pull his face from hers, bringing her forehead down to kiss. She knew her eyes were wide, the steady heat that had been growing in her stomach and her core were jolted and she was disappointed.

“I’ll be your date,” he told her, his hand strong below her jaw. “But right now, I’m really in the right frame of mind and I don’t want to lose this.” He pressed his lips to hers once more, relaxed his legs so she could move out from in front of his computer, his manuscript, his focus. She nodded halfheartedly as though she understood, but she felt dejected. She needed him, needed this and she knew he did too. He’d never ignored physical intimacy for work before and she worried, not for the first time about being eclipsed by whatever was going on with him. She feared that the end result of them finding a new, post-fugitive normal would mean finding a world where the other no longer fit.


	3. Chapter 3

He was fidgeting with his near perfect Windsor knot in the mirror, jaw set and from the sound of it, his breathing was a bit labored. She took him in—but god he was a handsome man. Tall, lean, muscular—he filled out every inch of his tuxedo; like it had been made solely for him. Hung loose in all the right places, gathered and deliciously taut in others. His still long hair was disheveled just enough to make him look 5 years younger and he had a trimmed two-day stubble gracing his sculpted-by-the-gods face, accenting his decadent lips. She realized if she didn’t stop staring they’d never make it to the party at all. She briefly considered peeling his clothes off of him, pushing him back on the bed and spending the whole rest of the weekend lost in the one thing they always had done well together. But she could see his struggle so she stepped up between him and the mirror, pushing his hands gently away and straightening his now askew tie, sending him an appreciative smile as she did. “Just for a few hours,” she reassured him, rubbing his chest through the obsidian lapels of his jacket and reaching up to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “We’ll be back home before you know it.”

The hall was an ostentatious display of garland, lights, and velvet bows. Strains of a jazzy version of Jingle Bells filled the air. Couples danced around the dance floor in the center of the large room, a line was growing near the bar off to one side and she gripped his hand, tilting her head in that direction.

“Some liquid courage?” He joked but she could see a furrow to his brows, she was feeling it herself – an unease in the pit of her stomach. Aside from an airport, she couldn’t remember the last time they were around so many people. People she knew, that she saw daily. They collectively felt exposed; like spending even a few hours with these people, being expected to converse, was going to reveal all their deep and lingering secrets. Years spent with assumed names, variety of hair colors, guns secured in purses and below pant legs; this night was in stark contrast to all they’d come to know. She twined her fingers with his and kept him as close as possible as they inched closer to the bartender.

A few minutes later, sipping a gin and tonic and a Jamison respectively, Scully ushered Mulder to a table where Nurse Sarah sat with what Scully assumed was her husband along with a couple of other surgical staff.

“Dr. Scully, you made it,” Sarah greeted with a warm smile, standing and offering Scully an awkward side hug and extending her hand to Mulder. “You must be the husband,” she joked in Mulder’s direction, not noticing him tense up. He hadn’t been aware she’d told people. He wondered fleetingly how long she’d been telling people. After he’d nodded and shaken hands they sat down in two of the vacant seats, taking hearty sips of their drinks. Her husband’s name they had learned was Roger, something Scully remembered hearing in passing. Before she could ask about any of the other occupants of the table, one of the surgical interns piped up with obvious intrigue.

“So, how long have you guys been married?” The 20-something girl asked. She’d been at the hospital for only a few months and Scully had only worked with her a handful of times. She sensed Mulder’s unease and she reached under the table, resting her hand on his upper thigh.

The answer should have rolled off her tongue, at least that’s what the expressions around them seemed to say while she and Mulder shared knitted brows, like they were trying to come up with the right answer to a question on Jeopardy.

“Five years,” she responded after a minute to wide eyes and bewilderment. She supposed to an outsider it looked like they’d never been asked that question before. She suddenly realized that other than her mother, she never had been asked that before. The weight of the stares on them forces her to add a caveat. “We’ve been together 20 years, the marriage was really born out of necessity.” The words had left her mouth before she’d really processed them and they elicited a knowing chuckle from one of the husbands.

“Oh!” A scrub nurse, wife of the laughing man, chimed in and she felt Mulder thread his fingers over hers and squeezed in anticipation. “You’re parents!” Mulder tossed back the last of his scotch in one go, clinking the glass on the table rather loudly. Both of them visibly bristled and the mood at the table began to shift to something less curious. Less interested.

“We were,” Mulder replied gruffly, his patience with the evening waning even after five minutes. He pushed back from the table, grabbed his glass and headed back over to the bar. He silently wished he’d stayed at home. None of their questions, he supposed, were out of the norm or, by the world’s standards inappropriate. He had spent so much of his life skirting social mores, caring rarely about anyone’s opinions of him. Five minutes with Scully’s overly exuberant coworkers and he’d reached his limit.

He heard a familiar gait behind him a moment before she leaned next to him on the bar. He inclined his head, as if to ask if she needed another as much as he did. He ordered them both and once in hand, they walked a few paces away to a less crowded area by a wall.

“Why did you feel the need to—” he began, not angry, just exhausted, but she cut him off.

“What? Tell people I have a husband?” She sighed at that, leaning back against the wall next to him and laying her head against his shoulder. “These are perfectly natural questions, Mulder. I know you know that. We’ve just never been the kind of people you would ask normal questions of.” She caught his eye, mirth and memories swirling there. “Now, ask me which gun I prefer…”

“The Glock,” he nodded without missing a beat and she scoffed.

“The Sig.” Their eyes met again, an understanding morphing into a matching set of genuine smiles.

He pushed off the wall, snaking an arm around her waist. “Dance with me, Scully.”

They found a small, unoccupied corner of the dance floor and he pulled her in for the slow song, arms coming to rest just above the swell of her behind, still holding his drink. Her arms met around his neck, the stilettos offering her a bit more height than her normal pumps. His body felt warm, solid, and she cherished it, as she burrowed her nose against his neck.

“I have to go talk to people,” she warned. “You should come. It’ll be good for you.” She felt him shaking his head in response even as his quiet laughter rumbled from deep in his chest, filling her with heat.

“As we’ve clearly illustrated, Doc, I’m not quite fit for public discourse just yet.” He meant it to be lighthearted, so she smiled but she knew there was more truth to it than he’d let on. She wanted him with her. As much as it was easier to wrap themselves up in obscurity, hiding in plain sight, it wasn’t healthy for either of them. She wanted him with her, needed him with her—but she thought maybe such a large function hadn’t been the best way to reengage with society.

She exhaled a quiet sigh and they danced.

Introducing herself solo, or greeting her fellow doctors, all of whom asked about her husband felt like nails on a chalkboard sounded. Shrill, grating—it got old fast. Every time she heard, “where’d your husband get off too” she’d glanced around, usually at the area around the bar and she became a little more annoyed, a little more abandoned, a little more alone.

Later that night, her rounds made and he with a pleasant warmth from the scotch settling in his system, he pulled her close on the dance floor. As uncomfortable as the night had been so far, he wished they could at least stay like that. Close, comfortable. She had picked out a form fitting emerald dress with an uncharacteristically daring v-neck that dipped a few inches below her cleavage. It had capped sleeves and the silky satiny fabric skated down along her curves, stopped just above her knee. Jeweled stilettos lifted her so she was just tall enough to rest her temple along the soothing scratchiness of his stubble.

“Can you believe we’ve managed to avoid parties like this for over 20 years?” She wondered aloud, thinking that even with the nature of their jobs, they hadn’t gotten glitzed and glammed up for each other. It made her wistful, knowing the closest they’d come to a dance of sorts was the Kroner High School gymnasium. He, however swears he remembers deep ruby red lips and a matching dress bought in early 1900s, but she still didn’t believe him about that. “However did we manage for two decades?”

He gave her a quizzical look and slowed them a fraction. “We haven’t been to one together, but I’ve been.” If he’d thought his response would have thrown her, he probably would have chosen his words much more carefully. For she stopped swaying her hips in time with his, took a step back and looked up at him with knitted brows. Confused, he could see a little hurt somewhere in a glint of an eye.

“What are you talking about?” She was bewildered, and Mulder looked around as people started to glance in their direction. He stepped back up to her, rested one of his hands on the small of her back and he pulled her over to a corner near the exit. They’d spent nearly every waking moment with each other for the better part of two decades, if he’d have gone to anything of the sort he would have taken her, or at the very least she’d have known about it, of that she was certain. His next sentence felt like a slap. A physical blow.

“In ’98, Scully.” He reminded her, at least thought he was reminding her. “You were out of town for the FBI’s 90th. I went with Diana.” She was entirely nonplussed as the pieces began falling into place.

They’d been back from Antarctica for a few weeks and she had gone with her mother to spend a week with Bill, Tara, and Matthew. He’d been home lamenting their ability to avoid anything of substance, the near kiss first and foremost in his mind. Followed shortly by his round the earth excursion and death defying rescue mission. He didn’t need thanks for saving her life, knowing she was alive was enough, but her dismissal of the precipice they’d been on led him to believe she didn’t remember his hallway confession and just how close they’d been to shoving themselves over the line. So he’d been home, feeling sorry for himself and angry at the universe for ruining his shot.

“Diana?” Her voice was a little higher than a whisper and where he was sure he heard a certain edge he could tell she was a little jealous and angry. He’d said it so nonchalantly, like it was nothing. “You nearly kissed me and then went with _that_ woman to an FBI gala? And never told me about it?” She inched away from him, beside herself. He’d been avoiding human interaction the entire night and when they finally were together, finding some semblance of normalcy he’d decided to drop this on her.

“Oh, you remembered?” He snapped back, aghast that they were suddenly fighting about something that had happened a decade ago. In a well-lit room; with wall to wall people. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’d bared my soul to you in that hallway, risked my life to save you and nothing, Scully. You’d stayed with me on the X-Files but then you’d left again.” The room was suddenly stifling. They weren’t used to having it out in public and he could feel people’s eyes on him. It made him uncomfortable, made his heart race. Being watched. He still wasn’t used to it; wasn’t ready. He reached up and loosened the knot of his tie and turned toward the exit.

Immediately off the ballroom was a hallway leading to the restrooms and coat check. There was an inlet in the wall about 20 feet down and he ducked in there, loosening his tie the rest of the way, thankful to be away from the sea of people.

“Of course, I remembered,” he heard her say once they were safely tucked in the crevice. The hurt in her voice was winning over her anger and it stabbed. He’d never been able to stomach hurting Scully, especially when he’d done the hurting.

He wanted her to know just how much he’d ached that she’d never reciprocated. Wanted her to see what would have driven him to go with his ex to a company function. Even if she had shown up in a slip of a dress, pressed her ample breasts into him all night. Even if for a moment he’d thought about kissing her, seeing if someone would want him back. He hadn’t, he’d been miserable. He’d wanted Scully, and he thought she either didn’t remember or worse, didn’t want him.

“I wasn’t in a good place after Antarctica, Scully. Neither of us were.” He rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation. They’d spent years working along side each other, running with each other, loving from inside the other—their communication was what always had set them apart. She briefly wondered when they’d started needing words to communicate. “It wasn’t a date, if that’s what you think. And it was ten years ago, Scully; she’s dead. Is this really what we’re arguing about right now in a banquet center hallway with fat Santa’s on the wall?”

She knew what it was about and it was hardly about Diana. That bothered her, but she’d hit a breaking point. It was possible she was overreacting to the pretense of a date wherein she’d spent the bulk of it alone. Maybe she was suddenly realizing that where she saw him as broken, it was possible he didn’t believe he was. He would never change, and she had never wanted him to—she wanted him whole, or at least to include her in the cracks and crevices life had made for her. “You can name in date order every Celtic folktale that ever existed, recite to me its origin and their modern adaptations and cultural effects.” Her eyes were glassy, the sheen that threatened to fall coating them like a blanket. “You could talk for hours about Bigfoot, make me feel like you’re a physical part of me, but you can’t _talk_ to me.” A large traitorous drop meandered its way along her mascaraed lash and landed part way down her cheek, gravity pulling it the rest of the way to the floor leaving a shimmery path in its wake. “For better or worse, Mulder. I’m in this. I want to be in this. But there are nights like tonight when I feel like I’m in this alone.”

Five minutes later, coats retrieved, and no goodbyes offered, they were driving home in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chapter is un-beta'd but seriously, it's so far past the deadline that I just want this posted. I'll add any edits later, but the structure will stay the same ;)

There had been an eerie stillness permeating the entire house since the night of the party. Scully had been keeping herself busy with a difficult case, her hours and sleeping having become erratic. She couldn’t tell herself she wasn’t avoiding him, she was. It was just easier than facing whatever had broken between them head on. In 20 years she’d never have believed there was a problem they couldn’t solve together, but here they were. Letting ghosts derail any hope of moving on. She just wanted him to choose them, not his theories, not what once was. She wanted him to have hope in their love—in what their future could be. She wanted him to acknowledge his mental state of being so he could get the proper help, instead of hiding away in his office everyday for the rest of their lives, letting the whole world pass him by; concocting monsters out of memories.

Pulling up to the house for the first time in a couple of days she noticed a weird glow seeping through the windows—pressing around the blinds, begging to escape. She told herself it was probably a strange movie light being cast from the television and she pressed on, parking the car and gathering her briefcase and overnight bag.

She hadn’t been home in two nights, but not being there for Christmas morning, even if they didn’t celebrate it anymore, seemed like a final conscious nail in the coffin. She wasn’t ready for that yet, so she’d grabbed a couple bags of groceries from the trunk and ascended the stairs.

The scene she walked into stopped her in her tracks; all her breath left her lungs and instant tears formed at the corner of her eyelids. The entire first floor was shining with a gentle white light born of tiny white twinkle lights strewn carefully around the branches of a tall, full Douglas fir. The wooded, refreshing scent surrounding her assured her it was real. The light around her was filled in with reflections of red, green, gold and silver from the simple ornaments hung from the tree. Resting at the top was a faded coppery wire star, encrusted with jewels as if it had been crafted after a model from the 1950s—it was stunning. She found her ability to breathe again, discarding her bags by the door, removing her gloves as she walked in towards the tree.

Mulder had moved a desk and set it up right by the stairs, which she noticed were trimmed with holly down alternating rungs. The time and effort he’d put into creating this for her was obvious, the whole scene breathtaking, though she hoped he’d done it as much for himself as well. She reached her hand to let a few needles of the tree prick at her skin, reassuring her that she wasn’t dreaming. It felt just ethereal enough that if she had woken up right in that moment she would not have been surprised—though she’d have been wholly disappointed.

She couldn’t remember the last Christmas that had looked like this. She tried though, her memory scratching along time like a scab over a wound that just refused to heal; every pass over felt sharp and festering. The Christmas they’d lost Ahab. The Christmas she lost her first child and hope for having anymore. The Christmas on the run where they’d lost hope. She felt afraid to let herself rest in what was in front of her, all around her—but reassurance was seeping in from around the corners of her carefully practiced sense of self-preservation. She wrapped her arms around herself, a futile attempt to physically hold herself together and stared into the branches of the tree.

The creaking of his office door pulled her from the tumultuous thoughts running through her head and she turned her head to face him, radiant with unshed tears. He was carrying a lone wrapped box that he set on the couch to come behind her and pull her into his arms, pressing a slow kiss to her cheek.

“I can’t bel—” she started but her voice was thick with emotion and she stopped. “How did you—” She still couldn’t get it out and she turned in his arms, pulling him down to meet his lips with hers. One of his hands came to tangle in her hair and the other held her firmly to him and she fleetingly thought that _his_ physical presence is what held her together.

Before they deepened the kiss he pulled his head back to rest on her forehead, hands tracing her cheekbones. “Merry Christmas, Scully.” She watched his eyes dart to the gift on the couch but she held him as close to her as she could, his proximity warming her, soothing her addled nerves, allaying her fears.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she offered gently, the desire to crawl up into him overwhelming. To sap every ounce of strength and satisfaction she could; the peace they had ever only found together, wrapped up in each other. “Thank you,” she said instead, knowing that it was possible he was trying to save face, pacify her to avoid an inevitable blow out. She wanted to ask, wanted to know what his motivation had been but she couldn’t bring herself to form the word, _why_. Not yet.

He walked her around to the couch, lifting the gift and sitting them both down. With a squeeze and a forehead kiss he offered her the present.

“But Mulder, it’s not Christmas yet,” she protested while he ran fingers through her hair.

“I know.” She cast a curious gaze, she’d missed cryptic Mulder. “It’s the pièce de résistance, Scully,” he continued with an undercurrent of elation. “We need it to complete the whole holiday motif.” Intrigued, she began tearing at the paper, revealing a clothing box—white, nondescript. He had taped all four sides like a lunatic and she took a nail to each, the anticipation growing with every pop. With an air of drama and in slow motion she removed the lid and then gasped at its contents. The lid fell away, tears dammed at her bottom lids, blurring her vision—but she couldn’t stop staring and blinked causing them to fall away. When her focus returned and she saw the golden baubles resting atop tissue paper she dropped the lid, hand moving to cover the sob that was making its way up her throat.

“Mulder,” she started, her voice so full he could almost feel it caressing his skin. Her finger traced a few of the ornaments. They weren’t exact, not the same as her parents, not exactly like Mexico, close enough. It was like the two of them, their relationship. The basic idea shape, the design was always the same: Mulder and Scully. Tried and tested their partnership morphed, new but always familiar. The need, the devotion grew, the intensity and the want became more pronounced but still: Mulder and Scully. The hurt, the distance, their mutual longings and passionate desperation, still. Mulder and Scully.

They had things that needed said, truths that needed unearthed, fears about their future that needed to be divulged, but she knew some things would always remain. In their purist form, they would always remain Mulder and Scully. For better or worse.


End file.
